


benchwarmers.

by millcrs (remoose)



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, i wrote this five years ago, it's sappy and short but i do not care, rare fluff, when i was 16 and had hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 14:27:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20725703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remoose/pseuds/millcrs
Summary: His lips are the colour of your third favourite Kool-Aid and that unruly hair of his has an awful habit of getting in the way of his eyes. But you don’t mind.(You like to imagine that it gives you an excuse to brush it from his view).-AU - In which Percy and Annabeth meet at the same park bench every week, learning about each others’ lives through their lunchtime quarreling.





	benchwarmers.

You wonder if he’d kiss you just then.

That if you were to lean forward – or do whatever social protocol required – and let your eyes flicker to his lips for a fraction of a second, that he might close the distance and you could say: “Well, actually, you kissed me!”

But you want him to kiss you and you getting angry about it will only happen in one of the vast scenarios that have spent months worming their way into your mind.

His lips are the colour of your third favourite Kool-Aid and that unruly hair of his has an awful habit of getting in the way of his eyes. But you don’t mind.

(You like to imagine that it gives you an excuse to brush it from his view)

What you do mind, however, is that he’s sitting on a park bench, smack bang in the middle of the great NYC, sucking on a snow cone when it’s below freezing and you can barely feel your toes.

He has offered you some, but that’s not the point. The point is that not only is he persevering excruciatingly cold temperatures and still smiling, but he’s doing it for you.

“It’s December.” Your voice leaves your mouth in a rasp, and you know that it’s for lack of breath rather than lack of use.

“You’re so wise.” It’s not quite a smirk that graces his lips, but it’s somewhere on the way and, despite what you would later claim to be false, you find yourself containing a smile and hiding it somewhere behind your weather-bitten cheeks.

“You know what I mean.” Your eyes roll to the heavens.

“I do?”

“Yes, you do.” You give a sharp nod and turn to gaze aimlessly at the few passersby.

He shakes his head, resigning: “I like to embrace the cold.”

“By eating dyed ice in the middle of winter?” And you try to stop your eyebrows from quirking (which is always hilarious, apparently), but heavily developed habits run their course.

“What can I say? I also like taking things to the extreme.” His hands spread out in a wide gesture, and you swear that if his hand wasn’t frozen-stiff around the cup, it would have flown from his grasp.

“So freezing to death and falling into the water fountain is what adrenaline-junkies do for fun these days?” Your eyebrows quirk even further (yes, it’s very possible).

“You know what I mean.” His cheeks tinged slightly pink, though it could be the result of his awful decisions when it comes to the current climate and not because his skateboard-on-black-ice fountain incident still hasn’t been lived down.

“I do, Seaweed Brain. I do.” He’s looking right at you, and the sentiment is both appreciated and returned. Not that it means much – he can look wherever he damn pleases. (Even if a teeny weeny part of you stops breathing for, like, half a minute when his eyes meet yours).

After several moments of silence: “It tastes blue, by the way.”

“Hmm?”

“My snowcone – it tastes blue.” He continues before you can interrupt with the complete impossibility of that statement. “Not that you would know, though, because you won’t let me share.”

“I don’t want a snowcone.” From somewhere in the back of your throat, an incredulous cry erupts. “To echo my earlier statement: it’s December, Percy.”

“I suppose it’s understandable. A magnificent girl like you probably has lovesick guys buying her snowcones left, right, and center. And here’s me, with the audacity to only offer you half!” He says it like he’s committed the worst crime imaginable (when really, he has, because you can’t quite recall the last moment your heart was beating this fast). “Well, the way to a man’s heart is his stomach, but I guess it isn’t the same for women.”

“First off: blue doesn’t have a taste. Secondly: you say that as though I’m some sort of… master manipulator.” And, all at once, the reasons you find Percy Jackson maddeningly irritating come flooding back, as though the dam has burst and frozen the moment in time.

Until: “Wait… magnificent?”

He nods, and you’re fairly certain – no, absolutely positive, that his tongue is stuck to the sugary ice.

“Lovesick?”

Again, he nods, but you can’t quite pinpoint whether the additional smirk is another thing to add to your _ List of Annoying Things About Percy J. _ or if it’s the cause behind the fact that your heart is now pumping so much blood to every corner of your body that you truly fear it may tear from your chest and spew scarlet all over the mucky snow.

“Yuh, ‘s a ‘erminal kin’a ‘ickne – ”

And you don’t have to wonder whether or not he’ll kiss you (let’s face, it, with his tongue plastered flat to his cheek and that stupid snowcone, it would be pretty difficult); because your lips are on his before he can even finish the sentence.

  
Yes, you really  _ can  _ taste the blue.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading this rare fluff. i will never post any again.


End file.
